Deadly Reunion

Seven years ago, rookie detective Max Hollis nearly threw away his career when he fell for Corey Devereaux. Then 18 years old, Corey was the star witness in his case against Harold Twain, the man who brutally murdered her parents right in front of her. Despite their mutual passion, Max refused to take their relationship any further once the case was closed, breaking Coreys heart.

Now, Harold Twain has escaped from prison, and can have only one goal: making Corey pay! Can Max protect the all-grown-up Corey from the killer, without falling for her all over again?

Chapter Two

Corey Devereaux shot her agent a wry look, then pushed a wayward strand of hair from her forehead with the slender paintbrush in her hand. "No need to lie, Val. I know its pretty messed up."

Valerie Jones was Coreys art dealer and the owner of Jones Avenue, the gallery where Corey often showed her work. As a dealer, Val was shrewd, professional and blunt to a fault. As a friend, she was far too nice. Taking a few steps back, Val examined the 30"x30" canvas resting on Coreys easel. "Im going to be honest, kiddo. I dont get it."

Corey stared absently at the slash of color in front of her, sharp red lines and jagged black brushstrokes that formed together to create a sword? Knife, maybe? "I dont get it either," she admitted. "And dont worry, this piece isnt going to be in the show." Rising from her stool, she set her brush next to the palette on the table and turned to the older woman. "I woke up this morning and this image was in my head. Im still not sure what it means."

Val worried her bottom lip with her straight white teeth, the lines around her mouth crinkling. "Did you dream it?"

"No." She swallowed. "No. You know I dont dream anymore."

And thank God for that. Shed always had vivid dreams as a kid, but after her parents murder, those dreams of rainbows and brilliant landscapes had morphed into dark scenes of violence and gruesome images. Two years shed endured the nightmares, until finally they stopped, along with the beautiful dreams of the past. If she dreamed now, she didnt remember anything in the morning.

It was a lot easier getting through the day when you werent reminded of death on a nightly basis.

"Good," Val said, then bent down to pick up the briefcase shed left on the hardwood floor of Coreys studio. "Call me when you finish up those last pieces. Weve already reached capacity for your opening. Contemporary collectors were lining up to score an invite."

"Thats nice." Again, her gaze restlessly drifted back to her painting, her mind trying to make sense of what it saw.

"All right, so Ive got to head out. Im meeting with a buyer this afternoon," Val said.

"Mmmhmm."

The other woman chuckled. "Okay. I see youve snapped back into artist mode. Guess I was lucky to pull you out of it for ten minutes. Ill talk to you at the end of the week, kiddo."

Corey barely noticed her dealers departure. She stared at the canvas, frowning deeply. What the hell did it mean? The sharp lines were a huge contrast from her typical work, which usually consisted of bright abstracts and the occasional portrait, if the subject was interesting enough. So why this? Why black and red and, really, a sword? Why?

The answers to those questions eluded her, replaced with the need to finish the piece. Maybe the final product would give her a clue.

She was just sinking back onto the stool when the sound of footsteps filled the large loft. Without turning around, she reached for her brush and said, "Whatd you forget this time, Val?"

There was a beat of silence, followed by the sound of someone clearing their throat. A male clearing his throat. And then two gruff words: "Hey, Corey."

The oxygen drained sharply from her lungs, her fingers froze on the paintbrush. Almost immediately, her heart took off in a sprint. Oh God. Was it actually

Slowly, she turned, wide eyes taking in the sight of him. The wide doorway framed his tall, lean body, and his hands were awkwardly stuffed in the pockets of his faded blue jeans. Hed always worn jeans on the job. Those sexy jeans and a buttondown shirt that never hid the ripple of muscles beneath it.

He cleared his throat again and took a step closer. "Hey," he repeated. "I, uh, I needed to speak to you."

Feeling like her legs had turned to cement, she managed to get up. Her hands shook wildly, and her heart why couldnt it stop pounding?

Um, maybe because the love of your life is standing five feet away? You know, the man you havent seen in seven years? The one you still ache for every damn night?

Yeah, that was probably why.

Swallowing hard, she moved toward him, pausing when they were only a few feet away. She faltered, trying to think of something to say, something that sounded sophisticated and professional and didnt reveal how badly she missed him despite the seven years theyd spent apart. Something that didnt make her sound pathetic, or bitter, or angry.

So she opened her mouth, and what came out was, "Hi, Max. You look tired."